


Werewolf or Troll

by iamisaac



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crossdressing, Fear of Death, Forced Crossdressing, M/M, Rape, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 01:36:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3100208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamisaac/pseuds/iamisaac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malfoy thought he learned all about sex and fear in his early years at school. It doesn't take Greyback long to prove him wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Werewolf or Troll

_**FIC: Werewolf or Troll NC17 Marcus/Draco, Fenrir/Draco**_  
Title: Werewolf or Troll  
Kink Showcased: Fear of Death  
Rating: NC17  
Pairing(s): Flint/Draco, Fenrir/Draco  
Summary: Malfoy thought he learned all about sex and fear in his early years at school. It doesn't take Greyback long to prove him wrong.  
Warnings: violence, pain, cross-dressing, non-con, humiliation  
Word Count: ~4200  
  
  
  
  
A troll (or at least, a man with some suspicious hints of troll ancestry) facing off against a werewolf. Draco looks at Marcus Flint and Fenrir Greyback and wonders which he loathes most.  
  
*  
  
He is twelve. He is twelve and Marcus Flint is Slytherin Quidditch captain. Flint rules, and the entire House knows it. Draco has bought his way onto the Quidditch team, yes; but he knows that Flint has no mercy. One mistake, one fatal mistake, and Draco'll be in trouble.  
  
*  
  
Lord Voldemort smiles.  
  
“Fenrir Greyback, meet Draco Malfoy. Malfoy Junior – he is our dear Lucius's son,” he adds to Fenrir, “- this is Fenrir Greyback. You will be working together from now on. Working for me.”  
  
“Yes, my Lord,” says Greyback, and Draco knows nothing better than to follow his example.  
  
“Yes, my Lord,” he says.  
  
*  
  
Potter. Potter again, orchestrating his downfall. Draco can feel his heart beat in his throat as the defeated Slytherins return to the changing room. He doesn't know what Flint will do, but he knows it won't be nice. Slytherins don't do 'nice', not unless they've something to gain.  
  
Draco has something to lose.  
  
*  
  
“One bite,” murmurs Greyback. “One bite and you'll be mine forever. Part of my pack. How would you like that, little Malfoy?”  
  
There's no answer to that. Fenrir knows precisely the effect his threat will have.  
  
“What do you want me to do?” asks Draco.  
  
*  
  
He's on his knees begging “Please, Flint, please, Marcus, no. I couldn't help it, I swear.”  
  
Flint yells at him. “You're playing to Potter's rules, you're playing for him. What's he paying you?”  
  
“No, no.” Draco is crying now, tears dripping down his face. He knows that it's lethal to show weakness but he can't help himself. “It's not true, it's...”  
  
“I'll deal with you later,” says Flint ominously, and Draco's heart beats harder than ever.  
  
*  
  
“You do exactly what I say at the minute I say it. If I say jump, you jump. If I say get down on the floor, you do it. If I say...” - Fenrir smiles, ominously - “if I say suck my cock, that's exactly what you're going to be doing.”  
  
Draco says nothing.  
  
“Got it?” snarls Greyback, and Draco crushes his hands into fists so that he won't see them shaking.  
  
“Got it.”  
  
“Good,” says Fenrir, and the smile is back, which does nothing to console Draco at all.  
  
*  
  
He is called to Flint's bedroom. Yes, other seventh years share it, but they know not to argue with Flint. If Flint wants to claim the dormitory, it is his to claim. Draco climbs the stairs with dragging feet, knocks unwillingly on the door.  
  
“Come in.”  
  
Draco comes, and looks with anxiety at Adrian Pucey, the Chaser for Slytherin.  
  
“You can go now,” Flint says, jerking his head in the direction of the door.  
  
“Okay, boss,” says Pucey.  
  
Draco can think of nothing to say, not even when Pucey has left.  
  
“See,” says Flint when they're alone, “I'm a nice guy. I don't want to hurt you, Malfoy.”  
  
*  
  
“I don't want to hurt you, Malfoy.” Fenrir Greyback uses the same words as Flint, but with a sneer on his face that shows he's not even pretending to mean it.  
  
Greyback would tear him into small pieces soon as look at him, if Lord Voldemort didn't have different plans. Draco, forced into a situation he loathes by the Dark Lord, can't help feeling the irony that Voldemort is the only reason he still lives.  
  
*  
  
Flint's ideas of not hurting someone don't mesh with Draco's. Draco, pampered heir of the Malfoys, has never found himself in a position of such subjection, such humiliation. Flint hasn't physically injured Draco, it is true. Hasn't even laid a finger on him. Draco has done this to himself, at Flint's instruction.  
  
“I'll call the others,” Flint says.  
  
Draco gulps, nods, says nothing. Flint walks down the stone staircase. Draco waits. One by one, the Slytherin Quidditch team walk up the stairs and enter the room. Draco has bitten his lip so hard that he's drawn blood. They all stop and look.  
  
*  
  
There's hurts that can be caused without killing. Greyback is an expert in these. Draco can see in Greyback's eyes how much he despises those who are not of his kind. Fenrir has never touched him in a sexual manner, but Draco has a horrible image of the werewolf discussing with the Dark Lord just how far he can go with the Malfoy boy. He can only pray that Lord Voldemort has set limits. And even so, how much longer before Draco collapses under the mental, the physical, assaults?  
  
*  
  
Montague laughs, looking at Draco. Terrence Higgs, whose place in the team Draco has taken, turns away in disgust. Draco wishes they'd all done so when he sees the expression on Peregrine Derrick's face. Derrick glances at Marcus, who nods. Draco doesn't know, doesn't want to know, what that nod means. He realises his blood is dribbling over his bottom lip.  
  
“Very pretty.” Pucey has joined the Slytherin group, his comment sneering.  
  
“I reckon so,” Derrick says, and it is worse because his words are not sarcastic. “I reckon so.”  
  
He walks towards Draco, runs a hand down the frills and bows that have transformed Draco into a hideous parody of a girl. Draco can not control an involuntary shudder, and Pucey laughs.  
  
“A big girls' blouse in more ways than one.”  
  
“Maybe,” acknowledges Derrick, “but still pretty.” He leans forward. “Give us a kiss, darling,” he leers.  
  
*  
  
“I want you on your knees,” Fenrir says.  
  
Draco is on his knees almost before the words are out. The first time, Greyback decided that his obedience came too slowly; the savage beating which was delivered in response left Draco barely able to see his own skin beneath the blood and bruises. The more time he spends with Fenrir, the more he loathes him – and the more he knows to do exactly what he's told. Greyback doesn't do feelings; the only emotion he is interested in seeing in Draco is fear, abject terror.  
  
“I'm going to make you beg,” Greyback says, enunciating each word slowly.  
  
Draco would beg now, except he doesn't know what Fenrir wants from him.  
  
*  
  
“You heard him,” Marcus says, leaning on the wall and looking down at Draco's white face. Draco twitches, glances at Flint. “Play nicely, Miss Malfoy,” Flint mocks. “Give the boy a kiss.”  
  
He can't mean it. Please – surely Marcus doesn't mean it? But Derrick is leaning in closer; Draco can feel his breath on his cheek. A hand under his chin, and Draco is eye-to-eye with him. Derrick smiles, then leans deliberately in and places a long, wet kiss on Draco's mouth.  
  
“He needs practice,” Derrick says to Flint.  
  
“He'll get it,” Flint says, and Draco tries to swallow the lump that feels as if it is blocking his throat.  
  
*  
  
Draco keeps his eyes on the floor. He doesn't want to see the expression on Greyback's face, doesn't want to see Greyback – not now, not ever. Fenrir moves closer, so that Draco is staring at the scuffed black boots of the man.  
  
“Our Lord” - and Draco hears the sneer in Greyback's voice and knows that he counts no wizard, not even Voldemort, his Lord - “is displeased with the progress being made. He's asked me to make his feelings known.”  
  
Draco doesn't think he's ever been this terrified. Voldemort's probably the only person who's kept him alive this long: if he's sanctioned Greyback's violence... Draco shuts his eyes quickly against a shaming tear which drips onto the floor. Fenrir's going to kill him, he knows it. But he'll do a good many other things to him first.  
  
*  
  
By the time Flint allows him to take off the dress, Draco has been humiliated, he thinks, in every possible way. He strips and makes for the bedroom door, half-naked, when Marcus halts him.  
  
“Malfoy!” Draco turns and looks at him, and Flint smiles nastily. “You didn't think I'd finished with you yet, did you?”  
  
*  
  
“I've always wondered,” Fenrir says, “how much a puny human body can take before it breaks.” He gives Draco a kick, almost in passing. “What would it take, I ask myself, until he snapped; until there was nothing left? What would it take, Malfoy?”  
  
“I don't know.” Draco's voice is shaky, but he knows better than to say nothing.  
  
“And what,” Greyback adds musingly, “would you do to stop me testing it?”  
  
Draco doesn't know the answer to that, either.  
  
*  
  
His father would kill Flint if he knew. But Draco won't tell him – can't. He's too ashamed; he'll never be able to mention this to anyone. He wonders whether Marcus knew that before he started. He crawls away, staying in the shower for nearly an hour, scrubbing, scrubbing himself until patches of skin are red and sore. Even then, he can't face the others. He hides until bedtime, puking every time he thinks about what's happened. How is he ever going to hold his head up again?  
  
*  
  
Draco stares around the room, looking desperately for some possible escape.  
  
Greyback laughs. “What are you looking for, pretty boy? No one's going to help you now. Poor little rich kid can't buy his way out of this one. Ever since Daddy didn't do what he was supposed to, you've been living on borrowed time. The Dark Lord gave you a chance to show what you were made of, and” - Fenrir grins malevolently, and Draco looks hastily away from those sharp, dirty teeth - “just like Daddy, you've not done the business. Our Lord doesn't like failures. He's lost interest in you. Which means you're all mine.”  
  
Draco realises he's been holding his breath the entire time Greyback's been speaking. He takes a sudden gasp of air as Fenrir grabs his head and yanks his chin up. He is helpless, unable to do anything but look at the werewolf, whose own gaze is roving over his body with lascivious interest. The shudder he gives, from fear as much as disgust, is equally unwilled.  
  
“A pretty little toy,” Greyback mocks.  
  
What are you going to do to me? Draco both wants and doesn't want to ask the question; either way it is irrelevant since he doesn't dare open his mouth. He is saved – for now – by Fenrir being summoned by Lord Voldemort. As the werewolf leaves the room, his expression is almost a snarl.  
  
Draco stays on his knees and prays for a swift death.  
  
*  
  
Flint holds it over him throughout the rest of his time at Hogwarts. The threat – just the suggestion that word might get out, that everyone will know what Draco's done – is enough to make Draco sick with fear, and Marcus knows it.  
  
Then there is the dread that Flint might make him do it again; Flint plays on that, too.  
  
“A word, Malfoy;” and the rest of the Quidditch team file out, leaving Flint and Draco alone.  
  
Flint tears Draco's robes off (later that night, Draco will sit up for hours trying to mend the rips) and pushes him back against the wall of the dressing room, naked and terrified. Draco knows, for Marcus has made certain he knows it, that Flint is stronger – far, far, stronger – than he is. He couldn't prevent the older boy doing anything he wanted.  
  
Marcus holds him there for a minute, maybe two, before letting go and stalking out of the room. When he's gone, Draco collapses to the floor and cries.  
  
*  
  
Fenrir doesn't use magic: he doesn't need to. He uses strength and power; and Draco is a twelve year old boy again, waiting to be assaulted, not knowing what form the abuse might take. But Flint had limits, and as far as Draco can tell, Greyback has none.  
  
*  
  
The day he leaves Hogwarts for good, Marcus corners Draco, twisting his arm up behind his back and pushing him into an empty classroom.  
  
“Leaving today, aren't I?” he says.  
  
“Yes.” Draco tries not to allow the relief he feels creep into his voice.  
  
“I've got nothing to lose by talking now. Can't throw me out, can they? I'm already gone. So... do you want to persuade me to keep my mouth shut, or do you want the whole school to know what you are?”  
  
Draco imagines what it would be like for everyone to know what's been going on. People looking at him and seeing that image in their heads; looking at him with disgust, contempt, pity – or worse, demanding a repeat performance.  
  
“See, Slytherins – they don't like fags.” Draco wonders how Marcus gets around his own predilections in this area, but Marcus hasn't finished yet. “But you're so much more than just a poof, aren't you? You're...”  
  
“What do you want?” Draco can't bear to hear Flint say any more. The familiar nausea creeps over him.  
  
“I've told you before – I'm nice. I'm not asking much, just a little goodbye gift, yeah?”  
  
*  
  
“Are you going to beg, Malfoy?”  
  
“Yes.” Please, please, tell me what I'm begging for.  
  
“You've been fucked before, haven't you? More than fucked.”  
  
“It's a lie,” says Draco instinctively.  
  
“Are you calling me a liar, pretty boy?” Fenrir asks.  
  
“No!” But if he isn't, he's admitting... “Yes. No!” Fenrir can do worse than Flint – far worse. Just agree with everything the werewolf says. Truth doesn't matter compared with survival.  
  
*  
  
Marcus pushes Draco to the floor in front of him, unbuttoning his robes. His cock springs free, and Draco, watching Flint look insinuatingly at his mouth, knows exactly what is required of him. He opens his mouth wide to take in the fat, heavy erection. Despising himself, he fellates the older boy with all the skill he has, trying not to choke.  
  
*  
  
Greyback idly lifts Draco's hand from the floor and examines it. With equal indifference, he pushes Draco's little finger back, and there is a crack as the bone breaks.  
  
Draco screams.  
  
*  
  
When the first picture arrives, Draco is not expecting it. Grateful that he opened the letter in his own bedroom, he stares with sick horror at it as his twelve-year-old self goes through a series of graphic, humiliating, acts. He doesn't want to look, yet can't tear his eyes away.  
  
Hearing his mother on the stairs, he burns it hastily with his wand, charring the edge of the bedsheet as he does so. Narcissa scolds him gently for that, and Draco apologises mechanically.  
  
“You've got a note,” she says, picking something up from the floor and reading it aloud. “ 'Would like to meet up and reminisce about old times. Sure you'll agree. Marcus.' Wasn't he your Quidditch captain at school, darling?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
The nightmare isn't over yet.  
  
*  
  
When Fenrir holds the next finger in his grasp, Draco knows what to expect – which makes it worse. The werewolf pauses for a second, his eyes raking Draco's face; making sure he knows what is coming. Draco is biting his lip, waiting for the pain to hit; hoping that maybe, maybe, this time it won't.  
  
When the finger breaks with a snap, it is almost a relief.  
  
*  
  
“Hello, Draco,” Marcus says genially. “What a pleasure to meet you again.”  
  
Draco looks around the pub, making sure there is no one who knows him there. “What do you want?”  
  
“Aw, Miss Malfoy, you don't sound pleased to see me,” drawls Flint. “Careful. You don't want to hurt my feelings, do you?”  
  
*  
  
“Do you know how many bones there are in the human body, Malfoy?” Draco shakes his head. “Two hundred and six. And I've broken just two – to start with. So, you're going to be a good little boy for your master, aren't you?” Draco nods. Once again Greyback grabs his hair, pulling it back until their eyes meet. “I said,” he hisses, “aren't you?”  
  
“Yes, Fenrir,” Draco whispers.  
  
“That's better, Malfoy.” Then Fenrir speaks in a parody of Draco's voice. “'Yes, Fenrir, no Fenrir, fuck me till I scream, Fenrir.' See,” he says, going back to his ordinary tones, “you're not in the Dark Lord's favour at the moment, but d'you know who is, Malfoy? I am. And our Lord, he doesn't much mind what I do with a runt like you.” Fenrir pauses.  
  
“Yes, Fenrir,” Draco parrots.  
  
“You put yourself up to play with the big boys, Malfoy. And it's playtime right now.”  
  
*  
  
“I don't want to.”  
  
Draco can hardly believe that he's spoken the words aloud. Nor, it seems, can Flint.  
  
“What did you say?” Marcus leans across the table, over-shadowing Draco.  
  
Draco gulps, but repeats himself. “I don't want to.”  
  
Flint grins. “When I care whether you want to or not,” he says, “remind me to tell you. Until then, Draco...”  
  
*  
  
Draco is holding the hand with two broken fingers protectively in his other. Both hands are shaking. He doesn't dare look at Greyback. He doesn't dare not look at Greyback.  
  
“Strip.” Draco looks at Fenrir dumbly, not understanding. The werewolf slaps his face with the back of his hand, making him lurch sideways. “Take off your clothes.”  
  
Draco hastens to obey, biting back a cry of pain as the robes pass over his injured fingers. Greyback picks up the garments between finger and thumb, examining them. Draco knows they are wet with his sweat, the result of animalistic fear. He shivers miserably at Fenrir's feet.  
  
“And people call me a beast,” Greyback says in disgust. “Look at you, kneeling there like a skinned fucking rabbit, practically pissing yourself in terror.”  
  
“Yes, Fenrir,” Draco says automatically.  
  
“Scared already, pampered prince?” he demands. “Why, we've only just begun.”  
  
*  
  
So it starts again.  
  
Flint never demands that of him, but Draco is aware of the lurking, menacing, presence of the threat. When the new Hogwarts term starts, he begins to dread Hogsmeade days, when Marcus will be waiting in a small room in the Hogs Head for Draco to join him. He starts acting out in the days beforea trip, desperate to be put in detention, but the teachers seem determined not to punish him – as though they know that it's more punishment to be left alone... to be left to Marcus.  
  
*  
  
Getting his mouth round Greyback's cock is not as difficult as surrounding Flint's. The troll heritage Flint always denied clearly affected the size of his apparatus as well as his brain. In a way, indeed, sucking off the werewolf is an improvement on what went before: Draco is at any rate back on familiar territory.  
  
At least, he is until Fenrir takes his maltreated hand in his own, and breaks the third finger as he thrusts into Draco's mouth. Clearly the squeal Malfoy makes turns the werewolf on: his cock twitches and a stream of ejaculate pours down Draco's throat. Draco is crying and choking, but now that he's had his satisfaction, Greyback seems to have no more interest in him for the moment.  
  
As a parting gesture, he kicks out at the boy. Draco barely notices.  
  
*  
Marcus has him on the floor. He has him in the bathroom. Often Draco goes back to school with an arse so sore he can barely manage to sit down.  
  
Most of all, Flint likes to have him on his back, knees pushed up against his chest, mocking him for being such a girl, complimenting him on his pretty face, his sweet, tender skin.  
  
*  
  
Draco has learned to get to his knees when he hears Fenrir outside the door. His clothes have long since been taken from the room; only returned to him when he and Greyback have a mission outside the Manor. When they get back, Draco's robes are torn off him rapaciously whilst Greyback tells him time after time how he likes to see the pale flesh of his victims. Listening to him describe in graphic terms what he's done to humans before, both as a wolf and as a man, Draco soaks up the pain and humiliation heaped upon him and knows he should be grateful it's no worse. He might no longer feel human, but at least he's not a werewolf.  
  
Yet.  
  
*  
Becoming one of Umbridge's prefects gives Draco power, a feeling of being in control. It's only surface deep, scratched through to the bone whenever he meets Flint in Hogsmeade, but he likes it. When he joins the Death Eaters that summer, it's in the expectation of feeling the power more strongly. And for a while, it works.  
  
*  
  
Greyback has come back from a meeting with Voldemort incandescent with fury. Draco, his eyes down, has the first hint of this when a swinging fist meets the side of his head, knocking him from his knees to sprawling full length on the floor. He is grabbed by the shoulders, Fenrir's fingers biting hard into his skin, and dragged to his feet. Fenrir's snarling face is a bare inch from his own.  
  
“What have you said?” he hisses.  
  
“I... don't know,” Draco stammers. “Please, Fenrir...”  
  
Greyback lets go of him, and Draco slumps to the floor. “If I hear a whisper, even a whisper that you've been complaining about me, you're going to wish you were never born.”  
  
Draco already wishes this regularly.  
  
  
*  
When the first note comes from Marcus in the beginning of Sixth year demanding his presence at the next Hogsmeade weekend, Draco (smiling) sends an abrupt refusal. The next note holds carefully veiled threats, and Draco thinks that this might be a battle worth winning face to face. He meets Flint in the bar of the Hogs Head, but instead of doing everything Marcus asks, Draco carefully rolls up his left sleeve.  
  
“I've got work to do, Marcus,” he says, meeting Flint's dark gaze coolly. “I'm sure you wouldn't like me to disobey our Lord.”  
  
Marcus scowls, his face more ugly than ever, and walks out.  
  
*  
  
“Our Lord,” Greyback says, his voice full of hatred, “feels that you need some special attention. I'm not enough, it seems.”  
  
Fenrir is more than enough. Draco doesn't say it. He says what he has been taught always to say.  
  
“Yes, Fenrir,” he says.  
  
Fenrir is standing over him, his teeth bared. Draco wants to puke.  
  
“You mean,” he snarls, “no, Fenrir.”  
  
“Yes,” Draco says. “No.” Both, anything, please don't hurt me...  
  
He might as well have said it all aloud. Greyback laughs, cruelly, but turns away.  
  
*  
Draco is free of Flint. He enjoys it to start with, confirmed in his conviction that joining Lord Voldemort's Death Eaters was the right way to find power and independence. Then, as the pressure grows on him to complete his task – kill Dumbledore – he begins to change his mind. Was all... was all this worth the relief of escaping Marcus's unwanted attentions?  
  
*  
The one person he never thought to see again. The one person he hoped never to see again. Draco looks up as Marcus Flint – half-troll, wholly Slytherin – follows Fenrir into the room.  
  
*  
He fails to kill Dumbledore. Failure is never looked upon kindly by the Dark Lord. He is summoned to meet him. Fearing fury, he meets something worse.  
  
Lord Voldemort smiles.  
  
“Fenrir Greyback, meet Draco Malfoy. Malfoy Junior – he is our dear Lucius's son,” he adds to Fenrir, “ - this is Fenrir Greyback. You will be working together from now on. Working for me.”  
  
“Yes, my Lord,” says Greyback, and Draco knows nothing better than to follow his example.  
  
“Yes, my Lord,” he says.  
  
Out of the frying pan into the fire.  
*  
And now, they're both standing over him. Draco doesn't know how Flint got in on Lord Voldemort's plans – can't imagine how someone as stupid as Marcus was allowed entrance to the inner sanctum. It doesn't matter, much. It's not as if he's got anything left to lose. Both of these men have fucked him; more than that, they've humiliated him in any and every way possible. They've made him cry, they've made him beg, they've ripped his pride apart and made him puke it all over the floor. And now it seems he's no more than a prize to be wrapped up in ribbons and presented to whichever of them wins this face off.  
  
He looks at them and hopes they both die. Or failing that, that he does.  
  
Draco looks at Marcus Flint and Fenrir Greyback and hopes for death.

* * *


End file.
